


Looking at the Moon

by bookjunkiecat



Series: This Heart of Mine Embraces [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Loving Sherlock, M/M, PTSD, PoW, Post-War, Pre-War, WWII, battle fatigue (aka PTSD), occasional descriptions of off-screen torture or inhumane conditions, war-time separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14527926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson first meet when they are both young men, in the prime of their lives and at the beginning of their careers. But war is on the horizon, and the halcyon days of "Peace in our times" Chamberlain promised won't last. Come what may, they are two men in love--and they will find a way through.





	1. Summertime

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline on chapters in this will vary, from post-war to pre-war to the height of the war days. John was interred in a Japanese POW camp for three years, and there will be mention of his time there. Please see the notes for trigger warnings, or if you're concerned, please reach out to me. You can find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders
> 
>  
> 
> Edited to note: I changed the name of part two of this series, and the name of the chapter. That's what I get for posting too hastily.

Sherlock splashed a bit of water on his chest and thought about getting up, drying off, and going downstairs for more chilled barley water. Then he thought about actually having to move, the tedious process of drying himself (and then his towel would be too wet to use and he'd use another and then John would shout at him because it was his turn to haul the washing down to the laundrette), getting warm all over again whilst traipsing through the house, and being too hot to enjoy his cold soak and cold barley water.

 

If only he weren't alone, then he could shout and ask someone to bring him said beverage. Although…Greg would ask him to for Chrissake keep the door closed when he was in there as he didn’t want to see his brother-in-law’s skinny, white arse.. John would become aroused by his naked form and want to lock the door and make love, but it was too hot for that. Sally would throw a towel at him and tell him to get the drink himself--and warn him against dripping on the floors, unless he wanted to clean it himself? Mycroft would sigh and remind him that there were other people in the house who might like to use the bath on a hot day. Wee Davy was at school, and that left…

 

“Comfy, Holmes?” Anthea asked, grinning at him from the door. She was leaning on the frame, looking flushed and tired. He judged that her leg must be bothering her--not that she would ever complain--but it seemed more than that. Sherlock wasn’t used to delving too deeply into feelings, aside from John’s, but she struck him as dispirited somehow. Not quite the usual Anthea swagger.

 

“Actually--yes.” Sherlock beamed brightly at her, pleased with his own ingenuity, and with her for asking him, so he could display his brilliance, “I've opened strategic windows to get the best possible breeze, the fan is providing additional ventilation, the bathwater is cold, and the house is quiet.” He sunk even lower in the bath, grateful for the old Victorian monstrosity. It was wide and deep, and long enough for a Holmes. Or even for a Holmes and one tidily sized Watson.

 

“Sounds perfect.”

 

“Nearly,” he allowed, brandishing his empty glass. “I don't suppose you'd care to top me up?”

 

“I've better things to do than wait on your lazy arse, child.” Anthea was the same age as himself, but liked to pretend he was infantile. Sherlock allowed it, because he was a very kind and fore-bearing person.

 

And because Anthea was a bit scary.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying her, “If you bring me a cold drink I've some pills I can bring from work that will help with the pain.”

 

“It’s--not that bad.”

 

“You're clearly tired and in pain, your prosthesis has been bothering you for some time. However you're stubborn and haven't gone to see the doctor. You should let John look at your leg at least.” John was _wonderful_ , he could fix anything.

 

Anthea shrugged, “John doesn't need to look at my leg, Holmes, it'll only bring back bad memories for him.” She raised a hand to forstall his objection, “You're right though...I should see a doctor. I'll go, soon,” she flashed him a too-bright smile, “That’s a Girl Guides promise.” She turned, “I'll bring you a drink, but I'd better get some really marvelous dope in return.”

 

*

 

What a beastly, sticky day it was! John had rarely been so grateful to return home--and he loved coming home. He was going to strip down to his skivvies and put on a record and lie in bed and smoke. Then when Sherlock came home they could lie in bed and neck and talk until tea. It would probably be potluck again, no one wanted to cook in this heat. As far as he was concerned, they could eat leftover Chinese directly from the icebox for the rest of the summer.

 

The house was silent when he let himself in, and he immediately shed his jacket and tie and wandered into the kitchen. There was a covered jug of powdered milk in the icebox, and he lost no time in chugging a glass, standing gratefully in front of the open door. Rinsing his glass, he filled it from the tap and cranked some ice cubes out of the tray. With a grateful sigh, he rolled the dewy glass along his cheek and slowly mounted the stairs.

 

On the landing he paused, foot on the first step up to the attics. He could hear faint voices, coming from the loo, one of which sounded like it belonged to Sherlock; curiosity called him. He stopped short in the doorway, staring in bemusement at his boyfriend, whose long, milk-pale limbs were stretched out in the bathtub. His dark, curly head lolled on the lip, and at the other end, sans prosthesis and girdle, and still clad in her skimpy underthings, was Anthea. She looked quite comfy, swigging from a bottle of rosé, her hair screwed up with an old chopstick through it.

 

The duo looked up and hailed him merrily. “John, old bean!” Anthea shouted, for some reason sounding like Terry-Thomas at his loftiest.

 

“John,” Sherlock said earnestly, draping himself over the side of the tub and regarding John with big eyes, “John, I'm drunk.”

 

“And naked in a tub with Anthea,” John pointed out, annoyed.

 

“Stead-hip!-steady on,” Anthea counseled, hiccoughing again. She was irritatingly adorable when she hiccoughed. “He's very pretty, your Sherly, but I don't poach. And he’s _sickeningly_ devoted to you.”

 

Sherlock snatched the bottle of wine from her, turned big pleading eyes on him, “John, my heart, my own, come join us.” He waggled the bottle in invitation. John was stupidly charmed by drunk Sherlock. And it _was_ hot. And they had wine. But…

 

“Oh…sod your scars,” Anthea said forcefully, slapping the water, “John, in case you hadn't noticed, _I'm missing a leg.”_

 

Well when put like that…

 

And so it was that when Mycroft and Sally got home, they found the three of them, roaringly drunk, splashing about like seal pups, in a nearly empty bathtub, the floor awash, empty wine bottles rolling underfoot.

 

*

 

John was enchanting when he was intoxicated--Sherlock loved John at all times and in all ways, but he was so rarely this prone to laughter and silliness these days. The war had dissected his youth from him with cruel precision, leaving behind an old man in a young man’s body. There were still times like tonight, however, when he forgot his scars--both physical and metaphorical--and became something like the medical student Sherlock had fallen in love with in those first tender days of their youth, before the war.

 

“I want a dog--we should get a dog--” John enthused, letting Sherlock push him up the stairs to their attic. He flirted back over his shoulder at Sherlock, “Wouldn’t that be nice, sweetheart?”

 

“Dogs shit,” Sherlock reminded him, dropping his robe and going to stand in front of the tall windows that overlooked the bit of back garden, and the faceless brick wall of a cannery. On days when the wind blew right, their room smelled of vinegar and Sherlock would dream of fish and chips. Tonight the air just smelled of baked pavement, dying grass, petrol fumes and a faint whiff of the Thames.

 

“So do you, but I love you anyway.” John flopped onto the bed and smiled at the ceiling, where Sherlock had--while precariously perched on a ladder--chalked a window frame, glass panes and stars, with a sliver of moon just visible. They couldn’t afford their skylight yet, but Sherlock wanted to give John a measure of peace. He would have used the money John spent towards his rattletrap jalopy on a skylight, but John wanted something everyone could enjoy. Which was John Watson all over--always thinking of everyone else’s needs before his own. Luckily he had Sherlock to be selfish for him.

 

“Dogs need attention, walks...the beast would start chewing on the furniture and Mycroft and Sally would fuss.”

 

“You’re thinking of puppies…” John rolled over onto his side and propped his head on his hand, patted the bed invitingly, “If we got an older dog it wouldn’t be so restless.” He smiled, looking sad, “We could get an old dog, one no one wants…”

 

Sherlock wanted to banish the sadness from John’s voice; he knew that look...John was thinking of his pinched, institutional childhood in the orphanage, always lonely, but never alone, growing older and more unwanted every day, until he was twelve and had run away. He laid down in bed next to his boyfriend and pulled him close, brushing his lips over the deep scarring on John’s shoulder, “I suppose a dog wouldn’t be the _worst_ idea.”

 

“Yesss!” John’s soft hiss of triumph made Sherlock laugh, and he was still laughing when John rolled him onto his back and climbed over him. But he stopped laughing when John slid down his body and took him into his mouth. Groaning low in his chest, Sherlock tunneled his fingers into John’s thick hair, raking it back, mussing it.

 

John hummed approvingly, and brushed his thumb maddeningly over Sherlock’s perineum as he swallowed him, pulling back slightly when Sherlock shouted hoarsely, hips rising. With soothing touches of his calloused hands on Sherlock’s thighs, he settled him, suckled gently, softening the motions of his mouth until he was licking in small, delicate motions over the sticky, slick head. “Come in my mouth, sweetheart…”

 

“John…” Sherlock whined, fisting one hand in the pillow scrunched under his head, the other buried in John’s hair, “Please…”

 

“Come in my mouth…” John whispered hotly, breath fanning over Sherlock’s sensitized skin. He left small, damp kisses on his straining flesh, “come for me, baby…”

 

Sherlock raised his head from his pillow, looking at John in desperation; John had one hand under him, stroking himself fast and loose, and that was enough for Sherlock, who stopped holding back and came in long, luxurious shudders. Sinking bonelessly into the bed, he let his numb limbs flop gracelessly, smiling as he felt John tense and then spend himself in his fist. “Use the sheet,” he suggested in a vacant voice, still reeling in lassitude.

 

“Not bloody likely,” John gave a good-natured grunt, “It’s my turn to do the laundry, I’m not taking these sheets off the bed any earlier than I have to.” He found Sherlock’s abandoned socks from the day prior, and used one to give his hand a perfunctory cleaning, before flopping down next to Sherlock. “You sexy bastard...god, I can’t keep my hands off you!”

 

“Nor should you,” Sherlock assured him, ruffling John’s hair up the wrong way, looking lovingly down at the head resting on his stomach. “I promised myself that when the war ended and you came back to me, I’d make love to you every day.”

 

“Aw, love,” John murmured, kissing his belly. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes damp and bright with tears, “You’re all I thought about--you know that.” He was silent for a moment, eyes dark, before he consciously shook off the past and smiled, “Never thought life would be this lovely, though. Practically perfect.”

 

“All it needs is a dog and a skylight,” Sherlock said seriously.

 

“Something to strive for,” John agreed, crawling up the bed to lie beside him, tucking one arm under Sherlock’s pillow, the other settling over Sherlock’s chest, “Turn off the lamp, sweetheart, I’m drunk and post-coital and exhausted.” He kissed Sherlock, “Promise me sweet dreams?’

 

“Anything for you, John,” Sherlock breathed, turning off the light, “Always and forever.”

 


	2. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Britain steps toward war with Germany, John Watson--young, fit and of age--faces the thought of dying before he's ever really lived. And then he meets a most extraordinary young man, who, in the first five minutes they meet, makes him feel thrilling alive.

Oxford, 1939

“Watson!” Hailed by the voice of his rugby teammate, Stamford, twenty year old John Watson turned and watched the familiar, bullish figure jog towards him. He was on his way to the dining hall for his noon meal and yet more studying. He’d known medical courses would eat up his time, but he’d not quite expected the constant studying. Johnny Watson was a smart lad, but he’d never been particularly bookish.

“Hey ho, Stamford!”

The young man, two years ahead of John in his studies, caught up with him, rosy cheeked in the crisp October air, his navy-blue eyes smiling, dimples popping up on either side of his good-natured grin. Stamford was a conscientious student, a popular upperclassman and decent scrum-half, admired by the profs and a devil with the ladies. His brown hair--cropped short to tame his curls--was ruffled by the damp wind, his clothes were breezy and rumpled, giving him the rakish appearance of a scamp, as if he had just fallen out of a tree whilst stealing apples, or had just come from tumbling a milkmaid. “Say, are you going to the pub tonight?”

John made a face, “I should study…”

Stamford twinkled at him, “We should all study, Watson, don’t mean we’re going to! It’s Friday--skive off like the rest of us, you plod.” He shifted his books, “Do you good to get out, mix a bit.”

“Sounds good...I might do.” John glanced at his watch, “Coming to lunch?”

“I’m always hungry,” Stamford laughed, falling into step with him. They were companionably silent for a moment, before he said a bit hesitantly, “Can't believe we’ve got to report in a week. Do-do you think we’ll be called up? Perhaps...I mean, as medical students, perhaps we’ll be medics.”

John glanced at him, “If we’re sent to the front it won’t make much difference if we’re carrying guns or carrying morphine,” he said bluntly, “God, after the Anschluss in 1938, and then Czechoslovakia, did anyone really think Hitler was going to stop there?” He kicked gloomily at the dead leaves littering their path. “He’s not such a funny little man now, is he?”

They were silent, both thinking of the approaching deadline for mandatory registration in the army. They were both in the age range specified in the royal proclamation that had been issued at the beginning of the month. It was all so stupid--war--for God’s sake their fathers had fought in the Great War to end this sort of German expansionist nonsense; when would it end? John wanted to be a doctor, help people, heal them, save them--not take up a gun and kill them. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he was a conscientious objector, but he was certainly in no hurry to enlist. He’d far rather think about Mona, the pretty Girton undergrad he had taken to the pictures the previous Friday--they’d ooh’d and ahh’d their way through The Wizard of Oz, John’s arm around her shoulders, and after they’d gone for a drink--a pint for John, a gin and It for Mona. He’d put his hand on her knee under the table, and she’d pushed it away, but with a smile that said she wasn’t that cross.

It made him feel a bit funny to think that such things were still important to him when young men his age in Germany and Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland were fighting and dying. And yet, here they were, worrying about girls and essays and practicals, making it to chapel on Sundays and how to best utilize their time between classwork and a good time down the pub. John still exchanged the odd letter with an old school friend who had emigrated to America and he sent him gossip about the determined Isolationist policies of the Americans, and clippings from their papers--they still made fun of Hitler in the funnies--he was a figure to mock, not to fear. 

Just how long will it take them to enter this time? John wondered, glum.

“Anyroad,” Stamford said slowly, no longer looking quite so carefree, “best enjoy our pints and girls while we can get them…”

*

The pub was crowded, students standing elbow to elbow, laughing about university gossip, jostling pint arms as they argued about the latest match, or minute points of law or ancient history. Holding his pint protectively, John leaned against the wall and watched the darts being played with good-natured bickering by Stamford and a mate of his named Hollis, or perhaps Harris. John glanced away from them, surveying the crowd, a bit bored; his mind kept wandering, back to his books. For some reason he’d had a difficult time focusing at social gatherings for the last few months--the fall of Poland to the Nazi tanks on the first day of September had stolen the quiet enjoyment from his birthday and left him feeling as if his youth had fled in the face of such aggression. Britain and France declaring war against Germany a few days later had sliced like a guillotine through his hope that maybe they could stay out of it, this time. 

Birthdays had never been a particularly celebratory time for him; John barely recalled any details from the first few years of his life, and from the age of four, until the age of twelve he’d lived in an orphanage, where birthdays weren’t a cause for joy. He’d run away and lived a life of pinched want and desperate survival for nearly a year, until his fortunes had changed forever when his path crossed that of his benefactress. 

Martha Hudson was a childless woman who had lived for nearly thirty years in America, returning to her native land following the death of her husband, a man John had gathered had been rather a hard, unscrupulous robber baron some twenty years her senior. With hard graft and a good deal of bribery, Frank Hudson had risen from a hardscrabble Cockney childhood to become a wealthy, powerful man. Life, however, had been lived a bit too hard and recklessly by him, and he’d died at the age of sixty-nine, in his mistress’s apartment, dead of an apparent poisoning. Martha had liquidated his assets and sailed back to London, deciding to purchase a house and live in comfort near the niceties of life she’d come to enjoy as the wife of a wealthy man, but away from the scandal surrounding his death. 

John had stopped one of the older street Arabs from lifting her bulging purse and been rewarded by the grateful woman with a breathless promise of repayment. She’d been expecting a request for money--John had asked if she needed any help around the house. Bemused, she had let him work in her small, neglected garden. Within the month he was sleeping in the kitchen, and by the time school had started, Martha had insisted he be educated. “You’re far too canny a lad to waste yourself on the streets or day labour, Johnny,” she’d sighed, standing over him as he scrubbed himself at the deep soapstone sink, “Behind your ears, mind--and I’ve lived a charmed life, so I should really return a bit of fortune back to the world. I’ll feed you and clothe you and educate you, John Watson, and all I ask in return is that you keep my cigarette boxes filled, learn how to make a decent Manhattan and for God’s sake to never vote Tory.”

His had been an odd, sometimes lonely life with Martha Hudson. She was fond of her drink, and spent hours shopping and lunching with the high-flying friends she made quickly upon her entry to London society as a rich widow. She frequently hosted card parties that went on for hours; John learned how to make an array of cocktails, how to recognize a Chanel from a Schiaparelli from a Vionnet. He heard the most scandalous gossip, the most heartrending confessions when the drink hour grew late and lonely high-society matrons began to blearily bemoan the loneliness of their lives. 

Martha would sometimes reminisce over her wild, unconventional youth; running away from home when she was fifteen with a Vaudeville hoofer, affairs, an abortion which nearly killed her and which left her unable to bear children, “A blessing really, in the end, Johnny, though I there were times I didn’t think so.” He heard about how she had been one of the Flora Dora girls in the 1902 Broadway revival, when she was a dewy seventeen year old.

They didn’t love one another, but they needed one another, and that was almost as good. Martha--for Chrissake don’t call me Missus, it makes me sound ancient and there’s a bit of life in me still, Johnny--had given him a gift every year for his birthday, but there was no fanfare, no parties, no cakes and hats and shouting schoolmates. John kept his head down and worked and learned and never quite believed the day wouldn’t come when she’d tire of him the way she did of everything eventually. But she didn’t seem to grow bored of being his benefactress, and before time could tempt his luck, when he was freshly eighteen, John had lost her to a car crash when she was in the country, paying a visit on acquaintances she’d met in Monte Carlo.

Her money hadn’t gone to him--indeed he wasn’t technically family, as she’d never made their connection formal--but she had actually taken the time to make provision in her will for his continued education and maintenance while he pursued a degree. In the two years since John had lost the one person in the world who knew anything of significance about him, he had found no reason to mention his birthday to another soul unless it pertained to an official form. His birthdays passed quietly, like any other day.

Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, books put away, lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, John would dare to dream about someday knowing someone well enough for his birthday to matter. Of belonging to someone who was glad he'd been born. 

*

He was jolted out of his funk when someone actually slammed into him--shoved, it would appear, by a rather stupendously drunk and annoyed fellow with a black brow, unfairly bulging muscles, and flanked by two equally large and stroppy mates. John managed to hold onto his pint glass, although the ale itself slopped all down his front. He cursed, but automatically reached to steady the tall, lanky young man who had been so unceremoniously pushed into him. “Alright, mate?” John started to ask, but was interrupted by a sharp, “I’m rather busy if you couldn’t tell.”

“What’s that you said about my game?” The irritated fellow asked belligerently. John, craning to look past the skinny fellow with the stupidly long legs, thought he looked like the bully, Bluto, in the American comic Popeye. 

“If you will hold your form like that you’ll miss the ball every time,” Longshanks said in a tone guaranteed to put the wind up someone already pissed and on the warpath. “Your wrist is too limp--”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, pretty boy?”

John, who had been trying to pull his squashed toes out from under the large feet of the boy currently hemming him in to the wall, winced at the dangerous tone, and then closed his eyes at the response, which was definitely going to end in the tall young man getting thoroughly trounced.

Longshanks sighed, as if Bluto’s stupidity physically pained him. “Oh--highly original. Dear me. As if I’ve never heard that before. And might I point out that you’re the one remarking on my physical appearance in complimentary terms--one might conjecture--”

“One might not,” John said grimly, pushed Longshanks off of his feet, grabbed him by the arm and darted out of the way just as the enraged snooker player swung for the pretty young man in question. His howl of agony as his fist connected with the wall was enough to draw the attention of everyone in the pub. John took advantage of the distraction and dragged Longshanks out onto the street. “Run!” he shouted, and they took off down the darkening road, legs flying as they tried to outpace any possible pursuers. 

When they were finally in the clear, their steps slowed and they stood panting, staring at one another in the dark street. “Well that was idiotic,” John said at last, grinning. It was the first time he’d felt so exhilarated in longer than he could think--maybe ever.

“No one asked you to join forces with me,” Longshanks retorted, stung.

“Someone has to look out for you,” John said cheerfully, holding out his hand. “You’re clearly an idiot.” He laughed, “I’m John Watson.”

There was a small silence, and he suddenly thought that the strange young man might have taken offence at his words, and then-- “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

They shook hands, barely able to make out one another’s face. John realized he had been hanging onto the other fellow’s hand and dropped it, then stuck his own in his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. “Too bad about my ale--I was thirsty.”

“I could…” Sherlock Holmes paused, cleared his throat, “I could buy you a drink...to thank you.”

“And I hadn't eaten yet, either,” John said, and then blushed hard at his cheek. 

Sherlock, who had turned and started off down the street, stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. John wondered if Sherlock was trying to figure out a way to make it clear he’d only been offering John a drink.

“Dinner?” There was a smile in Sherlock's voice when he finally spoke. 

A wild grin broke out onto John’s face, and with a spring in his step, he fell into step with Sherlock’s long legs, “Starving.”


	3. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We move back and forth in time from John and Sherlock's first meeting, to John's POW experience, to Sherlock's time in a top secret government lab.

_ Sennen Cove, Cornwall, 1947 _

 

_           I think we should have a honeymoon,  _ John had said. And so there they were, on a secluded beach in Cornwall, in a small shack near the clear water, where the sunsets steal peacefully over them and leave the two men in quiet contemplation. The days are long and full of the ceaseless cry of the shorebirds. They spend their mornings investigating the tidal pools and rocks, their afternoons pass with drowsy naps--hands cradled on one another's bare stomachs, sandy toes brushing--and their nights drinking rough wine as they burn their fish over the open fire John kindles, and laughter and woodsmoke rise up in wild eddies to the crystal stars. 

 

          Sherlock catches himself holding his breath, wary of disturbing the delicate sphere of happiness they find themselves in. It feels as fragile and shiny as a soap bubble, and just as likely to explode. John’s moods are...mercurial, these days. John Watson has come back to him, but he is not the same young man Sherlock knew before war tore them apart--his silences are dark, and often his thoughts will pull him away from the here and now to some place Sherlock cannot follow. Despite the (admittedly low) risk of discovery, they sleep with their windows and doors open, an oil lamp burning low, as John cannot bear to be in the dark. At home in their rented rooms they leave the lamp on, and Sherlock has moved the curtains down six inches from the top of the window, to allow moonlight and the light from street lamps to flood their room.

 

         It would be nice to have some place where they could stretch out into contentment and a routine, somewhere that wouldn't put them at risk of discovery and ruin. But for now this holiday--this  _ honeymoon-- _ will have to do _. _

 

         Still, it is a glorious bank holiday weekend they spend together, and Sherlock has determined not to worry overly about John’s dark times. There is nothing in this world which will part them, now. And after all, he thinks to himself, what is the light without the darkness?

  
  


*******

 

_ Three Pagodas Pass, Thailand, 1942-1943 _

 

           The past few years of his life had been stripped away. The rooms in Oxford, his professors, the labs; before that the house in Mayfair where he’d lived with Martha, his expensive school and generous wardrobe and comfortable life. It sloughed off of him like dead skin. John felt as if he’d been pared down to only this: a disgraced soldier, and one-time orphaned runaway.

 

          The soft life he’d lived had been interrupted by the war, but it hadn’t really affected him in a truly deep way until he was sent to Singapore. And then came the battle, the surrender, and the months in the prisoner-of-war camp at Changi...the long, horrendous journey by crowded railcar which had taken nearly a week...and then the unending trek through the jungles of Thailand to their present hell.

 

          Work, or you don’t eat, that was the only rule. That, and, don’t try to escape. They’d learned early on at Changi that escape attempts brought down punishment on everyone. 

 

          They’d arrived during the monsoons, no roofs on their huts, no respite from the barrage of rain; trench foot was a laughable complaint, they all had it. Worse were the tropical ailments that attacked, the hideous fevers, the ulcers which opened up wounds in a man down to the bone. In comparison, starvation was almost a lark. Their captors gave them two hundred and fifty grams of rice daily, the rest they had to forage for themselves. John had grown used to eating anything green he could find, to the incessant hunger which became a living thing, to having weak shit run down his leg when he coughed. It was impossible to keep clean--unless one counted the rains--morale was incredibly low, and the work was brutal.

 

          In the beginning, John had attempted to write “letters” to Sherlock in his little notebook, but once they’d left Singapore for Thailand, the conditions had worsened. With barely enough energy to make it through his days, John hardly ever found it in him to try and write, these days. He’d found it almost incomprehensible, in the beginning, that humans could treat others like this. The Japanese, in the very beginning, had mostly left them to their own devices, but as the war ground on, less and less in the way of food or medicine had trickled down to the prisoners. To the Japanese, surrender was a dishonour, and further, they had not signed the Geneva Convention--they found it acceptable to watch their prisoners become weaker and more pathetic with every passing week. If one prisoner fell while constructing the bridge, there were more to take his place. 

 

         Tonight, though, John felt compelled to pull out the stub of his pencil, and the small notebook he kept wrapped in a bit of oilcloth and write. There was no greeting. There never was. John was paranoid about his writing falling into someone’s hands. He felt that if the Japanese knew he had someone he loved, they would somehow use it against him. And too, if he died and his belongings were inspected by his fellow soldiers, he didn't want anything leading back to Sherlock. Homosexuals faced prison, and John wouldn't see Sherlock face that for his own carelessness. The only good, pure thing in his life was his memory of Sherlock. 

 

_         Benson died today. There wasn’t anything I could do for him. His leg was open to the bone--the stink of the rot would have emptied my stomach if there was anything in it--the poor bugger died in agony. God knows what it was that got him--this jungle feels like death itself, as if I’ll be consumed by something I can’t even see because it's all around me. Just rot away to nothing, a pile of bones hidden by a mudslide. You’d never know what happened to me.  _ _ Do _ _ you know what’s happened to me? They probably sent telegrams out to families, MISSING IN ACTION...but the official record says I have no family. The world doesn’t know about you. When talk gets around to family  & the people we’ve left behind, I just stay quiet. “No family” I tell them, as if you weren’t my whole heart--my whole world. Oh god, I miss you, I miss you _

 

        Eyes stinging, unable to finish, John tucked away his writing implements and snuffed out his bit of candle, rolling onto his back to stare up at the faint, unfeeling stars which shone coldly past the canopy of the immense jungle.

 

_ * _

 

_ The Firs,  _ Whitchurch, Buckinghamshire, 1943

 

        Sherlock had been wounded. It was just one of those things. The labs were a testing ground for every potential weapon, bomb, trick, gadget and device man could dream up. He’d been testing a new underwater fuse and it had gone off rather prematurely. Luckily he’d sneezed just as it detonated, and so his face had been averted from the worst of it. But his curls were singed and uneven, and his left eyebrow was a casualty that could not be recovered. Time would repair the damage on his left ear and cheek. He was young and healthy, the doctor had assured him cheerfully, there probably wouldn’t be any significant scarring in a few years. 

 

       His hands had been burned, and so he was in the infirmary, hands wrapped in ointment and gauze, immured in bed and bored out of his skull. The nurse had been good enough to turn her radio on for him, which had been fine when it was war news, which he listened to zealously, despite the constant ache it caused in his stomach, but the BBC was currently playing Tchaikovsky, for whom he had no use. It was apparently in honour of the Battle of Kursk, as Marshal Zhukov had managed to drive the Germans back with heavy losses.  And of course the nurse had disappeared, for her smoke break, which was always timed for that of the young man she was keen on, and she wasn’t here to put him out of his misery.

 

        He couldn’t hold a book, or a magazine, or even a cigarette, and there was little to occupy his time. Just his ceaseless thoughts. It was August, and John had been lost to him since February of the year prior. There was no official word, although Mycroft had been able to find out that he was believed alive at the time the Allies surrendered to the Japanese. But after that it was nothing. Sherlock couldn’t--wouldn’t--believe that John was dead. He was just...misplaced. Wherever he was, and whatever he was enduring, he was going to come back. And Sherlock would be here, waiting for him. There was no other way. John must come back. 

 

        It had been...somewhat easier...when Mycroft was alive, but now that he was gone, Sherlock was aware of how frighteningly alone he was. Now he had no one, no lover, or brother, or parents. Just clandestine work, and lonely nights of not sleeping, staring up at the ceiling and imagining John was back with him. And now he couldn’t even work, he could only lie here and think about Mycroft, dead under tons of rubble, his closed casket at the tiny funeral, of John, half a world away, suffering unknown horrors and as good as dead to him for as long as this war lasted.

 

        Sherlock stared up at the reflection of the sunlight on the infirmary window and tracked the progress of time, wondering if John was thinking of him, wherever he was. He must surely still be in the East--it would be night there. Was John safe? Did he have anything to sleep on, or was he laid on the barren ground, bones aching as his strength ebbed away?

 

        A tear slipped free and he brushed it away with one bandaged hand, blinking hard until his eyes dried. There would be no tears shed, not for John--because _ John was alive _ \--and not for himself, because whatever boredom or loneliness or pain he had to endure was nothing to what John was forced to endure. “How dare you cry, you weakling?” Sherlock castigated himself in fierce whisper, “John would be ashamed of you.” He lay for several minutes, struggling to put his emotions back inside the footlocker he had entombed them in for the present.

 

        Once more composed, resting his hands on his stomach, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and continued his latest letter to John, committing the words to memory, so that when his hands were healed, he could write it down. When John returned, he would see how ardently Sherlock had missed him, how he had thought of him every day...every hour.

 

_ Day three of lying in this blasted infirmary absolutely bored lifeless. It’s infuriating, not being able use my hands. They assure me that with proper care and the right exercises after, I should regain full use of my hands. I don’t think you’ll find them too hideous--as long as I can still caress you with them, push your hair back, hold you...oh Christ, John, how I miss you! I kept your pillow case unwashed after you left, and even though your scent is gone, it comforts me. When the loneliness gets too much to bear, I press it to my face and imagine I can still smell you. It’s comforting, even if I know it’s foolish and an empty gesture--how I miss it now! The sheets here crackle with starch and are redolent of nothing more than industrial soap and medical astringent. It’s harder to close my eyes and pretend you are lying beside me, the sheet over our heads, the sunlight bleeding through. Sometimes I achieve it, and I smell your skin, your hair, feel the warmth of your limbs next to mine and almost, almost hear you whisper my name cajolingly, trying to rouse me for breakfast. _

_ Prepare yourself to not stir from bed for at least a month, upon your return. I don’t care if anyone else wants to see you, they shall have to wait their turn. There is so much time, love, for us to make up for… _

 

*

 

Sennen Cove, Cornwall, 1947

 

           A storm rolled in as they slept; Sherlock, who was the lighter sleeper, woke at the patter of rain, and raised his head, considering closing the doors and windows. But John was sleeping so peacefully, cuddled to his back, one arm under his pillow, the other around Sherlock’s waist. He closed his eyes and drifted off, only to wake at John’s frightened shout. The first boom of thunder sounded like an anti-aircraft cannon ripping apart the sky over them, and John, asleep and vulnerable, reacted in terror. 

 

          Sherlock--from experience--knew better than to try to touch him. He crouched out of arm’s reach of the corner next to their bed, where John had pushed himself into the smallest possible ball and was blinking in blind fear. It often seemed he straddled two worlds in these moments, and Sherlock ached to touch him, to wrap him up tightly and assure him he was safe. It was rare for John to have such a visceral reaction like this, it must be the storm, combined with the unfamiliar surroundings. After a few minutes of Sherlock--making himself small and unthreatening--talking to him softly, John shuddered out of his fugue and seemed to realize where he was. “S-Sherlock?” He swallowed a raspy breath, “Did I…?”

 

          “You didn’t,” Sherlock assured him, holding out his hand. It wouldn’t have mattered if John had hit him, he’d endure anything for the privilege of having John back, but John didn’t look at it quite that way. He glowed inside when John took his hand and let him pull him to his feet and into an embrace. Wrapping his grateful arms around John’s sweaty form, Sherlock rubbed his cheek over John’s hair, whispered in his ear until he felt him begin to relax. The moved to sit on the bed, and breathed together, until John had relaxed, and the fast-moving summer storm had passed. Sherlock hummed, “Shall we take a walk along the shore?” Some fresh air often had the ability to clear John’s mind, and the activity tired him, so that he more easily fell back asleep.

 

          John exhaled, “God, please...yeah.” He reached for his shirt and trousers, but Sherlock stayed his hand. 

 

         “There won’t be anyone out at this hour, our boxers will be fine,” Sherlock said, blowing out all but one lamp. Hand in hand, they walked down the narrow path between the sea grasses to the sandy beach, and stopped, breathing in the bracing wind that swept over them. It was colder, without the sun, but there was something wild and free in the night air that called to them both. They walked through the deep, rain-dimpled sand, toes curling against the chill of the ground.  

 

         “I’m sorry I woke you,” John ventured after a bit.

 

        “John,” Sherlock said, “I told you that first night you came back--there isn’t anything I won’t do for you--no price I won’t pay to have you back with me.”

 

         Voice unsteady with unshed tears, John finally managed, “I don’t deserve you--but I can’t give you up.”

 

         Sherlock turned and pulled him to him, holding him tight, glorying in holding John in the open air for once, “Give me up? Just you try, John Watson, and see how far you get.”

 

         “Ah, Christ, love,” John breathed out, arms tightening as he tugged Sherlock in for a kiss, tongue flashing softly, lips stroking, until they pulled back, breathing deeply, hearts pounding, “I love you.”

 

         “I love you,” Sherlock breathed, lips tingling. He started as the water rolled over their feet, not having realized how close to the surf they had strayed, “Great Scott, that’s cold!”

 

         “Let’s have a dip,” John suggested, pulling at his arm. In the moonlight which shone through the scudding clouds his expression was mischievous, playful, more like the John Watson he had first met. 

 

         “It’s freezing,” Sherlock objected, but he was already shedding his boxers and following John into the water. They yelped, frisking and plunging, trying to warm themselves with motion. Sherlock longed for their warm bed, the soft sheets and faded quilt, “John, this water will render me a eunuch!” 

 

         “Come along, you softy,” John laughed, smacking him on the bum, “I’ll warm you up before you lose all my favourite bits.”

 

          “Which ones are those?” Sherlock chattered, snatching up his boxers and breaking into a run, grateful they hadn’t strayed too far from the shack. He burst through the open door and reached for a towel, drying himself off roughly and then hurrying into the bed to continue blotting his hair. John followed him in, shutting the door and following suit. “C-come here,” Sherlock urged, and pulled John in with him, winding his chilly arms and legs around John’s shorter form. 

 

         “Mmm,” John said, kissing him, his warm breath fanning wonderfully over Sherlock’s cold lips, “you taste salty…”

 

         “I’ve been p-pickled,” Sherlock managed, squirming until he was lying under John, and tucking the covers well around them. He smiled at his boyfriend, “I’m glad we came…”

 

         “Me too,” John said simply, face lighting with a smile. He brushed his lips softly back and forth across Sherlock’s, “Honeymoon’s a nice thing with you.”

 

         “You’re the only reason I’d indulge in such a mawkish custom,” Sherlock said, and John laughed and kissed him. Their shivers slowly ceased as they eased down into the soft, lumpy old mattress, hands roaming restlessly, lips seeking a deeper taste. Sherlock felt his prick filling out and rubbed himself lightly against John’s thigh, “Love…”

 

         “Hmm?” John asked absently, shifting to get a hand on Sherlock, drawing a gasp and an arch of his hips out of him, “You need my touch, sweetheart?”

 

         “Please,” Sherlock moaned, pressing his head back in the pillow as he stared up at John’s beautiful face, lit by the dim glow of the lantern. “I-I want you inside me, John, darling...please.”

 

        “You sure?” John asked, kissing him softly, leaving him gasping. The role was usually reversed, but sometimes Sherlock needed to feel John deep inside him, and tonight was one of those nights. “Hand me the Vaseline, will you?” Sherlock’s long arm reached for the rickety dresser next to the bed, scrabbled in the top drawer for the jar and he hurriedly unscrewed the top and John scooped a bit out. His hand grazed Sherlock’s belly and settled around his prick, stroking him slickly, until he was fully hard and thrusting lightly into John’s hand. He caressed and fondled his balls, which always drew sharp prickles of pleasure through Sherlock, and then his hand slipped lower and he gently parted him, fingers sliding and caressing with gentle ease.

 

         Moaning, Sherlock relaxed into John’s touch, eyes on his lover’s face. He threaded his fingers deep into John’s hair and pulled him close, melding their mouths. John’s movements were unhurried, leisurely, as he coaxed Sherlock to give way to his loving invasion; he pulled his fingers free and dove in for another deep kiss, “Ready?”

 

         Sherlock shifted, bringing his legs back toward his chest, and held John’s gaze as he lined up and teased him with his cockhead. His face felt feverish, and his muscles shivered and shook like a startled horse. The intimacy of this act always took his breath away--he couldn’t imagine doing something so very private with a stranger--John was the only one allowed to see him like this. Only pressing a little way inside, John waited for him to adjust, turning his head to kiss the palm of Sherlock’s hand, which had reached for him automatically. He leaned in and their tongues tangled as he slowly sank into him, one hand bracing him on the old sway-backed mattress, the other stroking him back to hardness.

 

         In the quiet stillness of the night, the only sounds were the surf on the shore and the faint creak of the bed frame as they moved together. Time lost meaning as John rocked into his body, and Sherlock tried desperately to stave off his approaching orgasm, not wanting the moment to end. But all too soon he reached the point of no return and came with a soft groan, belly quivering. John gasped out a curse and pumped into him with short, urgent strokes, finishing with a choked off moan as he pressed deep.

 

         Disentangling themselves they rearranged their limbs more comfortably and settled the bedding. John kept his arms wrapped around Sherlock, who tucked his head under John’s chin and draped an arm over John’s waist. Within minutes they had fallen into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, watched over only by the moonlight which peeked through the windows.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post this. I have had major health issues the last four months and while all but a few paragraphs of this chapter was already written, I just didn't have it in me to begin writing again. I hope this is worth the wait.


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